


The Duchess and the Daredevil

by Amelia_Clark



Series: Victorian 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, F/M, Gags, Historical Dress, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, the rich tapestry of human sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:24:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celeste Winchester, née Middleton (of the Kansas City Middletons), awoke suddenly at the break of dawn in a mahogany bedstead older than the country of her birth. Uncertain at first what had roused her, she lay quite still, drowsy and warm beneath the counterpane; she could hear the cheerful aubade of the lark that frequented her windowsill, the creak of floorboards downstairs as the servants bustled about—but these were everyday occurrences, surely not to blame.</p><p>Then a low and guttural moan issued forth from the other side of the door connecting her bedchamber with the Duke's, and she knew precisely what—or rather, <i>whom</i>—had cut short her slumber. </p><p>Not every duchess, upon hearing her spouse <i>in flagrante</i> with another man, would feel little more than annoyance. </p><p>But Celeste was an exceptional duchess.</p><p>(The Charlie-centered sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2591756/chapters/5770949">Primeval.</a> Featuring cameo appearances by most of the female cast!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting this started thanks to reading Sarah Waters's brilliant historical lesbian novel _Tipping the Velvet._ May this fic be 0.0001% as good.
> 
> One quick heads-up: Dean and Charlie will have sex in this fic—awkward, purely procreative sex, but nevertheless, they're gonna do it and it's not gonna be traumatic. Thought I'd let you know up front.
> 
> (Header detail from _Mrs. Cecil Wade_ (1886) by John Singer Sargent.)

_Spring 1887_

Celeste Winchester, née Middleton (of the Kansas City Middletons), awoke suddenly at the break of dawn in a mahogany bedstead older than the country of her birth. Uncertain at first what had roused her, she lay quite still, drowsy and warm beneath the counterpane; she could hear the cheerful aubade of the lark that frequented her windowsill, the creak of floorboards downstairs as the servants bustled about—but these were everyday occurrences, surely not to blame.

Then a low and guttural moan issued forth from the other side of the door connecting her bedchamber with the Duke's, and she knew precisely what—or rather, _whom_ —had cut short her slumber. Her suspicions were only confirmed by her husband's voice gasping out his lover's name, the lover in question answering in a gruff undertone. She could not make out Castiel's words but didn't doubt they were filthy.

Not every duchess, upon hearing her spouse _in flagrante_ with another man, would feel little more than annoyance. 

But Celeste was an exceptional duchess.

Pushing back the bedclothes, she crossed the room with brisk strides and rapped sharply on the door. “Gentlemen!” she called through it. “Conduct your business more quietly at this hour!”

At her knock, dead silence had fallen in the Duke's bedroom, followed by furious whispering and, after a moment, hasty footsteps. The door cracked open, and her husband's flushed and bashful face appeared in the gap. Dean had a face lovely as a girl's, with delicate features and a full mouth that seemed always to have just been kissed—right now, that was undoubtedly the case. He'd donned a watered-silk dressing gown in a jade that made his eyes green as a meadow. “I'm so sorry, Celeste, we thought we were being quiet.”

“I assure you, it was entirely at my instigation,” said Castiel Novak. Dean's lover—Celeste's university chum from years before—stood close behind him clad in a nightshirt of pale cambric, the two buttons at the neck undone. His brow was furrowed over eyes of startling blue, his own mouth reddened by kisses.

“I'm in no need of details,” Celeste said, “merely uninterrupted sleep. Besides, Castiel, isn't it almost time for you to return to your own room?”

Dean shook his head. “No need, the servants are used to our arrangement by now. Not that we're indiscreet, of course—but if Becky finds it scandalous when she comes to light the fire in the mornings and we're abed together, she's never let on.”

“Frightened of losing her place, I'll bet.” Celeste knew the housemaid in question, a chattery blonde of sunny disposition.

“She's nothing to fear,” Dean assured her, as Castiel chuckled and said, “No, she likes it.”

“What?” asked Dean, casting a horrified glance over his shoulder.

“I overheard her telling another housemaid how sweet we looked, embracing in our sleep. It was followed by a lengthy and appreciative description of our, ah, personal attributes. Apparently one of us had kicked away the sheets one morning, and she was treated to quite the view.” 

“Well, that's...that's good to know, I suppose,” muttered Dean, clearly mortified. He pulled a face at Celeste, who had dissolved into helpless giggles. “You may go back to bed, my lady, we shan't disturb you further.”

“You'd better not,” warned Celeste, though her tone was jesting rather than sharp. Pulling the door to, she climbed back into bed with a sigh, pulling the covers up over her head to muffle any further intrusive noises, from next door or otherwise. After all, no one expected a duchess to be awake before noon.

*****

In his own room, Dean was turning from the door when Castiel seized his shoulders and spun him round to press him against the wood and kiss him soundly. He leant to whisper in Dean's ear: “We're not finished, darling. I haven't fucked you yet.”

“But—Celeste—we promised,” gasped Dean at the same volume. Castiel had already unknotted the sash of Dean's dressing gown and pushed it off his shoulders; underneath, he was naked, his cockstand at half mast. It swelled against Castiel's palm when he wrapped his hand around it.

“We promised not to bother her, not to stop. I know _I_ can be quiet,” Castiel murmured as he stroked. “Can you, I wonder?”

Dean's face contorted as he bit his lower lip, hard, to keep back a moan. “Honestly? As long as you're touching me, I don't think I can.”

“Then I suppose we'll have to gag you,” said Castiel, and Dean shivered at the bolt of heat that went through him, stiffening his cock further. Castiel let go and went to rummage in a heap of discarded garments until he found one of their cravats, then returned to tie it over Dean's mouth. Dean made no move to stop him, instead closing his eyes and leaning into his ministrations. “Get back on the bed,” Castiel purred when the linen was secure. “On all fours, please.”

Dean hastened to obey, knees sinking into familiar grooves on the featherbed. Kneeling behind him, Castiel slicked up his fingers with Vaseline once more, prodding between the cheeks of Dean's arse, then pressing one slowly inside while Dean groaned, already glad of the gag. “Shhh,” said Castiel, petting the small of his back.

Dean rested the side of his face on a pillow gave himself wholly over to pleasure—the sedate pace of it luxury enough, when too often their couplings were rushed by circumstance. Though it had been two years since they'd first met at a scientific lecture, they still dwelt an ocean apart; and while Celeste was accommodating—she'd secrets of her own—to the rest of the world Castiel could never be more to Dean than “Her Grace's dear old friend.”

In due course, Castiel turned him over and swapped out fingers for cock, pushing into Dean with his mouth fallen open in a soundless cry. Arching his back, Dean tugged the gag out of his mouth and muffled his moans in Castiel's kiss instead; they thrust and bucked and whimpered, murmured curses and sweet nothings by turn. When Dean came, Castiel slapped a broad palm over his mouth just in time to cut off a shout—and then bit down on Dean's shoulder as his own pleasure overtook him. 

They lay tangled together, panting, until sense returned, then made their ablutions. Before they, too, drifted back into sleep, Dean put on a nightshirt, muttering about housemaids who'd seen more than they should.


	2. Chapter 2

'Twas indeed a quarter till noon when Celeste rose for the day. Dressing without a maid for breakfast _en famille,_ she chose a morning gown of aquamarine silk and slipped her feet into worn felt slippers gaily embroidered with morning-glory vines, then pinned her auburn hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Now that she had the social duties of nobility, these hours before she must wear a corset were all the sweeter—she used the blessed breathing room to whistle an air from _Ruddigore_ as she came downstairs, skipping a little in time with the tune.

Dean and Castiel had preceded her to the breakfast parlour and were gazing at each other over their plates with their usual besotted expressions, like a pair of cats sharing a saucer of cream. _I knew they wouldn't be content to slumber,_ she thought.

Castiel stood when she entered and mumbled a somewhat bashful good morning, while her husband greeted her unintelligibly through a mouthful of bread-and-butter. “Good day, Castiel, good day, my lord,” she answered with a yawn as she piled her own dish high with eggs, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, and several slices of toast. She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled onto a chair next to Dean, across from Castiel.

“How are you, my lady?” asked Dean, nudging her amiably with his shoulder. “You were, ah, able to sleep?”

“I was, though I doubt you two followed my example,” she said, leaning forward to drop several lumps of sugar into her coffee; she stirred as it steamed, its sharp aroma like a feather duster for the cobwebs in her head.

“Good, good,” Dean said vaguely, not acknowledging the end of her sentence. “And your plans for the day? Castiel and I planned to ride, if the weather stays fine.”

“Not today, my Lord,” said Celeste, and sipped her bittersweet brew. “I find myself grown weary of playing the ineffective chaperone.”

There was a brief, awkward silence. “I'd no idea you felt that way,” said Castiel.

“I have surprised myself by saying it aloud,” she admitted. “I love you both, but lately I've felt like a minor character in your great love story.” 

Dean gave her a chagrined look. “You are hardly insignificant in our lives, Celeste. You're Castiel's oldest friend. You're my wife, and will be the mother of my children. You couldn't be more important.”

“I'm your wife in name only. Castiel is the spouse of your heart, and while you are everlastingly kind, I cannot compete with your profound bond.” Celeste sighed and crunched her toast, licking away a golden drop of marmalade from the corner of her mouth. “It's unfair of me to complain, I know, when I entered our union with eyes wide open.”

“Yes, but you're no fortune-teller, Celeste,” said Castiel. “If the situation is proving more difficult than you'd anticipated, that's hardly your fault.”

“Indeed,” said Dean. “If anything, it's mine—I can hardly style myself a good husband when I didn't notice you were unhappy.” He punctuated this pretty speech by stealing a piece of bacon off of her plate—he'd stuffed it entire into his mouth before she could reprimand him.

“You have the manners of a stableboy, my lord,” she said archly. He swallowed and grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners—such a disarming smile she couldn't help but grin back. “And I'm not unhappy, not really. I am...well, I suppose I'm bored. I spend my days in conversation and correspondence and changing my clothes, and I find myself longing to alter my routine.”

“Perhaps it would do you good to have company other than ours?” Castiel suggested. “Why don't you pay a call to the Harvelles? Pass some time with women for a change.”

Countess Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Joanna lived a few miles away; the late earl had known Dean's father at Cambridge, and their families had remained close. And while Lady Joanna was standoffish at first—she had once hoped to wed Dean herself—their shared fondness for archery and operettas had eventually made them fast friends. “That's a marvelous idea, Castiel! I shall walk over while you're out riding.”

*****

“Oh, good show!” cried Lady Joanna as Celeste's arrow found its mark, striking the butt firmly a scant inch from center. “You are a veritable Diana, Celeste—but for Dean, that is. I mean His Grace.”

Celeste grinned and tipped her bonnet before fitting another shaft to her bow. “If my noble spouse doesn't mind your using his Christian name, I certainly don't, Jo.”

“Yes, but I must train my tongue or I shall slip up in company. Not every matron is as scornful of propriety as you are.”

“I should consider myself a silly woman indeed if I allowed jealousy to colour our friendship,” said Celeste. “Besides, I am exceedingly proper, matron or no.” Aiming just to the right of her previous shot, she let fly, only for an errant cross breeze to blow it off course. “Oh, balls!” she shouted with a stamp of her boot.

Jo dissolved into giggles. “Very proper indeed.” They crossed the tange to retrieve their arrows, skirts skimming over the dewy grass. “How is His Grace lately?” Jo asked. “That handsome American scientist is visiting you again, correct?”

Celeste nodded. “Professor Novak has been staying with us the last fortnight. They woke me at dawn today, if you can believe it,” she muttered without thinking. She attempted to cover her slip-up by making out her near-bullseye to be stuck fast in the straw, requiring her full attention to winkle it forth.

“Really? Whatever for? Some fossil-hunting scheme?” asked Jo.

“Precisely,” Celeste said with relief, yanking out the arrow at last. “I tell you, Jo, I need more women friends. Novak and my dear duke are good company, but they _are_ men, and men can be so maddening at times.”

“Say no more, I know full well how maddening Dean can be. I knew him in short pants, and I daresay he was worse then—he's never put a frog down the back of your dress, I hope?”

“No! The little dickens. How did you repay the insult?”

“I punched him in the nose, actually,” said Jo. “He had the audacity to go crying to Mother and call it an 'unprovoked and dastardly attack unbecoming of a lady.̓ When I heard that I hit him again—but in the arm this time.”

“Much more ladylike.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, I too am _exceedingly_ proper,” teased Jo. “If you truly desire to meet more local representatives of the fairer sex, you should come with Mother and me to the next meeting of the village ladies' society! We are planning a charitable fête, and I'm sure you'd be a great help.”

“That would be lovely! Thank you for the invitation, Jo.” The two linked arms to walk back to the house, Jo keeping up a stream of chatter about the plans for the fête thus far—a fortune-teller, a jumble sale, a coconut shy. Celeste strolled along beside her, only half-listening as secret dreams began to stir. What if, this time, one of the women she met was like her? She had met only a few others in her life—women who loved women as they were meant to love men. Likely her hopes would be dashed again, but for now, she sent up a silent prayer to any god who would listen—Diana, perhaps. For as much as Celeste longed for friendship, her heart's dearest wish was a great love story of her own.


	3. Chapter 3

The day of the Lebanon Village Ladies' Aid Society's fortnightly meeting found Celeste coiffed but as yet unclad, frowning at the half-dozen afternoon dresses lying on her bed in a haphazard heap. Already, her lady's maid had assisted her to don each of them in turn, as well as a few others Celeste immediately rejected, but none would suit.

“I'm sorry, Hermione, this must be quite trying,” she apologized. “I know I'm usually more decisive, I don't know what's wrong with me today.” Hermione muttered something non-committal in French, a language of which Celeste knew very little; as usual, she pretended to understand and hoped that her maid wasn't insulting her to her face. It was quite ridiculous, she knew, to be this nervous about meeting the ladies of the neighborhood—as the highest-ranking woman for miles, she could show up wearing a potato sack and they'd still be obligated to compliment its drapery.

A knock at the door preceded Lady Joanna's entry in a pink-and-white Liberty gown festooned with embroidered daisies. “Celeste, you're not dressed? We've less than half an hour before roll call!”

Celeste turned to her with panic-stricken eyes. “Roll call? I had no idea things would be so formal.”

“Oh, well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but Naomi—Lady Angell—she's quite particular about procedure. Sir Marvin's only a baronet, but he's an MP, and I believe she decides all his policy positions for him. Rather a frightful harpy in my opinion—though I will admit she's much more organized than our previous chairwoman, Miss Talbot. You don't want to start off on the wrong foot with her. What's the delay?”

“I hate all my frocks,” said Celeste, gesturing at the jumble of garments on the counterpane. “Do help, I've no idea what to wear.”

Jo rolled her eyes and turned to Hermione. _Laisse nous,”_ she said in a tone of dismissal, _“je vais l'aider à s'habiller.”_ Celeste's maid departed with a curtsy as Jo started rummaging through the dresses, putting a few to one side: a forest green paisley gown with asymmetrical gathers of black lace net; a high-collared azure afternoon dress of woven silk faille and satin; a silver-and-mauve creation from the House of Worth; and Celeste's newest acquistion, in iridescent silk tafetta the rich indigo of a ripe blueberry. “There, pick one of these and let's be off.” 

“Pick one for me?” asked Celeste hopefully.

With a heavy—but clearly feigned—sigh, Jo considered for a moment before pointing to the indigo taffetta. “That one. Wear it with the hat I gave you, the tall one with the peacock feathers. Now, wrapper off, petticoats on, we're going to be late!” She snatched at the sash of Celeste's robe and made as if to untie it; Celeste took a step back before she could stop herself, face suddenly hot.

“I'm—my apologies, you startled me,” she said hastily. “If time is truly of the essence then best to call Hermione back. She's quick at her work.” 

“Very well,” said Jo, but there was a faint vertical line between her eyebrows, and Celeste cursed inwardly. Jumping back like that from a sisterly gesture—she shouldn't react that way to a woman's touch, like it was something risky. Jo was unlikely to guess her secret, as gently bred, unmarried English ladies were forcibly sheltered from such things, but not everyone would be so oblivious. She'd been spoiled living with Dean and Castiel for so long.

Had she really daydreamed that she might find a lover among the ladies of the village? This meeting would, on the contrary, be fraught with hidden perils. 

*****

Despite Hermione's best efforts, they were indeed late. As they were ushered into Lady Angell's best parlor, a hush fell over the gathering, and then a wave of curtsies swept through them as they stood and stooped in turn. There were perhaps a dozen women present, of varying age and elegance; all were unknown to her but Jo's mother, the dowager Lady Ellen Harvelle, who greeted her with a nod from her comfortable seat by the fire. Celeste smiled at her, inwardly admiring her ruby-red ensemble, and felt the weight of the others' curiosity as she made her apologies to their hostess. 

“Well, Your Grace,” sniffed Lady Angell, proper and imperious in a bronze and burgundy gown, “we're so honored that you've joined our little group at last. Perhaps, though, you could endeavor to be more prompt next time.”

“Of course, my lady. I'm delighted to be here.” Celeste looked about for an open seat in vain—until a brunette beauty wearing sapphire stood up hastily. Her attempt to demur falling on deaf ears, Celeste sheepishly sat in the woman's vacated chair. “Thank you,” she said.

“You're quite welcome,” the woman said. “It's not every day I meet a duchess. Or an American.” She curtsied again.

“Please don't stand on ceremony like that, I can't stand it!” burst out Celeste, extending her hand. “I'm enchanted to make your acquaintance as well, Lady...”

“Oh, I'm no lady,” she said; Celeste heard a snort from elsewhere in the room, and the woman colored. “I meant—I have no title.” She shakes Celeste's hand, obviously restraining the urge to curtsy again. “I'm a widow, to be exact: Mrs. Braeden.”

Celeste started inwardly. _So this is the Widow Braeden,_ she thought. She had been Dean's mistress for a year or so, he'd said; that sound of derision must mean her former status was known to at least some of those present. The poor woman was probably worried that Celeste would find out—or that she already knew, and loathed her on sight.

“Charmed,” said Celeste, trying to smile in a way that would put her at ease. She must have managed it, because Mrs. Braeden grins back.

“If you don't mind,” said Lady Angell frostily, “I _do_ need to take roll, Madam.” Celeste made eye contact with Jo and raised an eyebrow; Jo shrugged, clearly unrepentant.

With a guilty glance at her hostess, Mrs. Braeden retreated to a corner of the room; Lady Angell retrieved a pair of spectacles from the table beside her and cleared her throat. “Miss Bela Talbot.” A woman in pink, pretty in a feline way, raised her hand airily. “Please say 'present,'” admonished Lady Angell.

“Present,” said Miss Talbot in an irritated tone.

“Thank you. Mrs. Mills.”

“Present,” said Mrs. Mills, a tall woman in her middle forties in a wine-colored dress a few years out of fashion. 

“Mrs. Hanscum.”

“Present,” said the plump, kind-faced blonde in crisp white cotton beside Mrs. Mills. 

“Mrs. Mills and Mrs. Hanscum are head matrons at a home for wayward girls,” Lady Angell said to Celeste. “They will receive a share of the profits from this year's May Day fête to aid them in their vital work rescuing these unfortunates from their sordid states.”

“Please call me Judith, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Mills. She indicated the two young women behind her chair. “These are my wards, Annie and Claire.” The girls curtsied, looking humiliated to be such visible objects of charity, stiff and awkward in their outdated wool frocks—brown for dark-haired Annie, ivory for blonde Claire.

Lady Angell proceeded to call Ellen and Mrs. Braeden's name, marking them present with a stroke of her pen. “Lady Crowley.”

“Present,” purred the Scottish-accented voice of a middle-aged but striking woman with hair henna'd vibrantly red, sumptuously clad in a black-and-crimson dress better suited for evening. She was regarding Celeste with a sly, knowing smirk that chilled her to the bone. This Lady Crowley must be related to the vile yet shrewd baron who'd told Dean's father about his affair with Castiel; Celeste would have to be careful not to make the dowager baroness suspect her own illicit inclinations.

“And of course my daughter, Hannah,” Lady Angell was saying. This individual, in pale blue silk that complimented eyes the color of cornflowers, hovered behind her mother's chair like a slender ghost, giving the impression that she was not used to being embodied. She held a leather-bound ledger and a stack of loose paper; when her mother held out a hand, she pressed the top sheet into it immediately, as if she were an automaton newly wound, before settling back into that otherworldly stillness. “Thank you, dear,” said Lady Angell without looking at her. “Now, to business! We've only a month to prepare for the fête—I do hope you won't find our discussion too dull, Madam.”

“Oh, I'm sure I won't!” Celeste said hastily.

She was entirely mistaken, however—the conversation was both frightfully boring and largely one-sided, as Lady Angell continued to run the room with an iron fist. From the looks on a few other women's faces, Celeste was not the only one to find her attention wandering. Lady Harvelle was asleep with her eyes half-open—a talent she'd perfected in church; Miss Talbot was leaning on the mantelpiece, and when she caught Celeste's eye, she surreptitiously ran a finger over it and made a face at the film of dust she collected. Celeste managed not to laugh.

Finally, Lady Angell came to the end of Hannah's armful of papers. “Well, we may stop there for today, I suppose. I do hope you'll stay a bit longer, however; I've invited a special guest to speak to the group, but she's late—”

The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a mighty racket coming from outside, a mechanical rattling and banging that brought with it the sharp scent of petroleum. “Oh,” said Lady Angell with ill-concealed distate. “She's here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I spent hours researching 1880s fashion and matching everyone with an appropriate outfit, so I'm passing it along, lol.
> 
> [Jo](https://fashionologyextraordinaire.tumblr.com/post/160485824953/silk-tea-gown-ca1885-liberty-co-british)  
> [Charlie's](http://ravensquiffles.tumblr.com/post/159352210691/silk-dress-c1889-the-met) [rejected](http://ephemeral-elegance.tumblr.com/post/142512462447/woven-silk-faille-and-satin-afternoon-dress-ca) [dresses](http://ephemeral-elegance.tumblr.com/post/139104304193/silver-embellished-gown-with-changeable-bodice)  
> [Charlie](http://ephemeral-elegance.tumblr.com/post/131746626955/iridescent-silk-taffeta-afternoon-dress-ca-1887)  
> [Charlie's hat](https://www.etsy.com/listing/76171155/wilhelmina-late-1880s-victorian-womens?show_sold_out_detail=1&show_request_another=1)  
> [Ellen](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/166603820896/day-dress-charles-frederick-worth-1883-1885-the)  
> [Naomi](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/166903558657/dress-1885-1886-goldstein-museum-of-design)  
> [Lisa](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/165699199413/afternoon-dress-c1888-kent-state-university)  
> [Bela](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/166625657956/day-dress-1886-1887-fidm-museum)  
> [Jody](http://ravensquiffles.tumblr.com/post/145475535527/burgundy-silk-dress-c-1882-mfa)  
> [Donna](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/165696424397/dress-c1885-lacma)  
> [Alex](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/166609982362/dress-1880-1885-les-arts-decoratifs)  
> [Claire](http://hoopskirtsociety.tumblr.com/post/159914767700/two-piece-day-dress-ivory-wool-and-silk-taffeta)  
> [Rowena](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/166619169354/dress-bon-marche-1886-hallwylska-museet)  
> [Hannah](http://fashionsfromhistory.tumblr.com/post/165681924213/day-dress-c1883-national-gallery-of-victoria)


	5. Chapter 5

A general exodus ensued, as the ladies in the parlor rushed out to greet their mysterious guest in a din of petticoats, rustling like a flock of pheasants taking flight. Celeste found herself at the front of the group as they others unconsciously gave her the precedence she was due; she was next to their unamused hostess when they reached the front garden and beheld the new arrival and her [bizarre conveyance](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daimler_Reitwagen).

It looked rather like a radiator mated with a penny farthing, with two large spoked wheels, a seat mounted between them, and an assemblage of metal that must serve as a dynamo, producing that prodigious noise. The driver of this motor-cycle was a dark-haired young woman in a [red woolen overcoat](http://ephemeral-elegance.tumblr.com/post/131800773527/full-length-hooded-wool-coat-ca-1886-via-the-met), goggles, and a rather squashed hat; she clattered to a halt and pushed her eyewear up to her forehead. Her whole face was drab with dust but for twin ovals around eyes of Prussian blue; she gave a mischievous grin and a wave. “Hullo, everyone! Sorry I'm late for your shindig. Had trouble scrounging up the petrol for Rocinante here." Celeste was surprised to hear her voice, or rather her accent—flat and familiar as the Great Plains.

"May I present Miss Dorothy Baum," said Lady Angell to Celeste sourly. "Miss Baum, allow me to introduce Her Grace, The Duchess of Lawrence."

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Miss Baum, who was wiping the grime off her lovely face with a handkerchief; she hopped off her vehicle—which Celeste hoped was in better repair than its namesake—and bobbed an enthusiastic curtsy, booted ankles flashing beneath the green and ivory skirts of her [Arts-and-Crafts-style dress](https://fashionologyextraordinaire.tumblr.com/post/161475635913/afternoon-dress-date-c1885-culture-american). She extended her hand towards Celeste, realized it still had the handkerchief in it, and stuffed it up her sleeve before repeating the gesture.

"Miss Baum, please!" said Lady Angell. "Duchesses do not shake hands. I'm so sorry, Your Grace, please forgive her; she's used to rougher company."

"It's perfectly all right," said Celeste, and clasped Miss Baum's hand. Her palm was cool and slightly damp, more callused than Celeste expected, and she smelled of petrol and tobacco, with a faint undertone of rosewater, a heady mixture of masculine and feminine. Who was this singular individual? What in heaven's name did she do with herself when she wasn't riding around the English countryside on that clangorous contraption? Celeste realized she was holding onto Miss Baum rather longer than politeness indicated, as if they were lovers plighting their troth; blushing at the thought, she dropped it hastily. And Miss Baum winked at her, so quickly she scarce believed it real. Mouth suddenly dry, Celeste fumbled for words: "Very nice to meet you, Miss Baum,” she managed. “It's rare than I encounter another American outside of London—I was born and raised in Kansas City, myself."

"How small the world is!" exclaimed Miss Baum. "I'm from western Kansas—Liberal, if you know it. I grew up on a farm nearby. And do call me Dorothy."

Lady Angell harrumphed, the haughty harrumph of a true British matron. Celeste had heard that sound rather often when she first landed on these shores, before she learned the gulf between the propriety of her homeland and that of her adopted nation. Poor Miss Baum—Dorothy—must be familiar with it, too; she caught Celeste's eye before rolling hers ever so slightly. Celeste tried and failed to stifle a giggle, and was glad once again that her elevated rank rendered her beyond censure from anyone present.

"Well, Madam, am I to give my lecture out here on the lawn?" said Miss Baum, utterly unfazed by Lady Angell's obvious disapproval of her demeanor. "I should be happy to, but I'd wager some of these ladies would prefer to sit as they listen. I do have a tendency to go on.”

Miss Talbot laughed; it was not a kind laugh. “A lecture? My goodness, on what subject? If it's dress reform, you may spare your breath; I shall keep my 'irrational' corset if the alternative is your...ensemble.”

“Oh, don't worry,” said Dorothy sharply, “I'd hardly tax a lady such as yourself with rationality.” She pronounced the word lady as though it weren't quite respectable. “Lady Angell asked me to entertain you all with tales of my travels in west Africa—I suppose I could put in some bits about local fashion, though, if that's the only way to hold your interest.”

"That sounds delightful!" cried Celeste, in hopes of easing the moment; she stepped forward between Miss Talbot and Dorothy to clasp the latter's elbow, and the other woman tensed, then pressed into her touch, angling them subtly away from the crowd. “I can't wait to hear of your exploits, Miss Baum,” Celeste continued, despite suddenly feeling unclothed. “But it's such a lovely day, I'm loath to go back inside. Surely we can have chairs brought onto the lawn for the older ladies?"

"Not on my account, my dear," said Ellen Harvelle, turning up her face to the afternoon sun. "I'm not yet that advanced in age."

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Mills.

"I should like a seat,” said Lady Crowley. “It's my shoes, you see." She lifted her sumptuous skirts a demure distance, revealing pumps with heels so high her feet tipped precipitously forward. "One must suffer to be beautiful, it's said, but 'tis a duty I tend to shirk." She gave Lady Angell a vulpine smile and folded her hands.

“I shouldn't mind sitting down myself,” piped up Mrs. Hanscum, sounding relieved that someone else had broached the subject.

"Very well," said Lady Angell, her tone indicating rather the opposite. “Hannah, come.” She disappeared back into the house, trailed by her daughter; the latter kept glancing behind her, clearly curious about the guest her mother was treating so brusquely. Miss Baum grinned at her and touched the brim of her dowdy bonnet, as if she were more used to wearing a man's hat; Hannah smiled shyly and hurried away.

Dorothy hopped sidesaddle onto the seat of her motor-cycle, regarding her audience with confident mien as she pulled a slender cigarette case from her sleeve. “I don't suppose any of you ladies has matches.”

“I do, in fact,” said Mrs. Mills, already rummaging in her reticule. “Here.” She tossed a matchbox at Dorothy, who snatched it out of the air one-handed, then lit her cigarette.

“I confess I had an ulterior motive in suggesting I lecture alfresco,” she said, blowing out a stream of fragrant smoke. “Our hostess doesn't approve of my habit, particularly not in her parlor. My own fault—I burnt a hole in an antimacassar on my last visit, and she's never forgiven me.”

“How did you meet her ladyship?” Celeste asked. Her bafflement was so evident Dorothy laughed.

“Her husband's club sponsored my first expedition to Angola two years ago,” she explained. “A bunch of tedious bores with deep pockets.”

Celeste laughed in turn. “I have known many a man fitting that description, on both sides of the Atlantic.” 

Dorothy's mouth curved into a sly smile. “I've never had much use for the sex, myself.” Her voice dropped lower. “What about you, my duchess?”

The question was innocent enough, but paired with that smile, Dorothy's true meaning was clear, and Celeste felt a giddy warmth spiral out from the pit of her stomach. Before she could gather her wits to respond, Lady Angell's front door flew open, and the lady of the house stalked out, trailed by the liveried hindquarters of a sturdy footman supporting one end of a divan while a slighter lad struggled with the other. Hannah brought up the rear, with her eyes affixed to the younger footman's backside and a broad grin on her face that suggested Celeste had erred in dismissing her as a mere mousy miss. In due course, the divan was situated beneath what shade could be found, the matrons settled upon it—though their hostess clearly wished to sit, Celeste couldn't fault her for preferring to stand rather than wedge herself next to Lady Crowley—and Dorothy's lecture began.


	6. Chapter 6

Celeste had previously thought Castiel an unsurpassed lecturer; he had honed his skills at university by using her as a practice audience, and she'd always found him engaging and witty, able to make the dry subject of fossils compelling by conjuring the shades of the leviathans who left them behind. However, his speeches were tightly controlled: whether delivering prepared remarks or speaking extemporaneously, she knew that he always kept his main topic in mind and rarely wavered from it, as single-minded in his pursuit of a scientific idea as he had been when pursuing Dean. Dorothy's style was entirely different, not only from Castiel's but from that of any lecturer Celeste had encountered. Her sentences didn't build upon each other like stones, raising a staid and solid edifice, but meandered like water down a hill, swirling and eddying around her subject with a lazy grace. 

In a frank and forthright manner, she told of her travels in Nigeria and Gabon, where she'd learned enough of the indigenous languages to leave behind the the dour missionaries and callous functionaries of the Empire and visit villagers who rarely saw white women. She spoke most of the women who had befriended her, teased her about her accent and recoiffed her hair, shared their food and complained to her about their men. With a wink and a nod towards Miss Talbot, she even attempted to describe the local fashions—“though, as you pointed out, I haven't an eye for fabrics or cut, so I'm sure I shan't do them justice.” Miss Talbot's laugh this time was kind.

Although their hostess retained a rather astringent expression, the rest of the audience seemed as charmed by her discourse as Celeste; during Dorothy's most hair-raising tale—the day her friend Efe's youngest child wandered off and was feared lost to a leopard—Mrs. Hanscum leaned forward to prop her elbows on her knees and her chin on her elbows, squeaking with relief when the little girl was discovered asleep under a tree. Only when Dorothy drew to a close did Celeste realize her feet hurt terribly from standing stock-still for an hour; flexing her toes within her slipper, she squinted ruefully heavenward at the realization that this glorious sunshine was sure to produce freckles. 

Afterwards, there was a polite hubbub as the assembled women took their leave of each other; Celeste made her required rounds, accepting and extending invitations to tea in a kind of amiable daze. This was the purpose of her attendance, after all—to make women friends, to fill her days with something other than the envious monotony of keeping Dean and Castiel's secret. Not, she thought as she faced Dorothy at last, to stare tongue-tied at this beautiful, daring woman, who was staring back at Celeste in a way that brought a pulse of heat to the delta between her legs.

“Duchess,” Dorothy said. A lock of nut-brown hair had escaped the bonds of her bonnet to flutter in the faint breeze, and Celeste's fingertips itched with the desire to brush it away from her face. “It was lovely to meet you.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Celeste, proud that her voice did not shake. “Will you be in Lebanon long?”

“A few weeks. I need to raise funds for my next expedition, and that means ingratiating myself with Sir Marvin's set again. I'll be staying at the Emerald Arms outside of town.”

“You must come to dinner,” urged Celeste.

“Or perhaps tea?” said Dorothy lightly. “I wouldn't want to impose upon his lordship. But I'd truly enjoy deepening our acquaintance, my duchess.”

“Tea, then,” said Celeste, as Jo appeared at her side, clearly eager to depart. 

As they set out for home, Jo tugged her sleeve and whispered in her ear, “Do you know you accepted Elisabeth Braeden's invitation to her son's birthday celebration next week? You'll scandalize the neighborhood, you know, everyone believes Ben is Dean's natural son—though I have my doubts. The Dean I know would acknowledge any child of his, born on the right side of the sheets or not.”

“Did I?” While Dean had told her of his connection with Mrs. Braeden, he'd omitted the rumor of Ben's parentage. Like Jo, she was certain that it was untrue, and couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for Lisa, and the lonely life she must lead under the subtle snubs of polite society. Celeste shrugged. “I see no reason not to attend. Their liaison was years ago, and he's always spoken of her kindly. Since I'm not jealous, I may as well be scandalous.”

“Oh, I hoped you'd say that,” said Jo with glee. “Don't worry, I'm invited as well. I shall act as chaperone, and if by chance you'd like to trade tales of his Grace's carnal appetites, I shall nibble a biscuit and be quiet as a mouse.”

******* 

His Grace, as it happened, was at that moment indulging said appetites, sucking Castiel's cock with great enthusiasm in the shade of an oak tree, hidden from prying eyes by the tumbledown walls of a mock-Roman folly. Their horses grazed nearby, munching the ornamental shrubbery, chaotic after a generation's neglect; Dean's sable mare flicked its ears in annoyance as Castiel came with a loud groan.

“You've become rather good at that,” said Castiel, stroking Dean's hair while Dean put his trousers to rights.

Dean sat up, an exaggerated pout on his handsome face. “Only rather good? And here I thought I had surpassed myself.”

Castiel laughed and tilted Dean's chin up to kiss him, catching his outthrust lower lip in his teeth. “Every time. You are everything I could ever hope for, darling.” He stretched and yawned, sleek and satisfied as a pampered cat, then squinted up at the sun to gauge its progression across the sky. “Celeste should be returning to the house soon, I think. I suppose we should get back as well.”

“In a moment,” said Dean. His eyes shifted away from Castiel's to gaze at a mossy pillar nearby. “I wanted to speak to you about something.”

“Very well, then, speak.”

“Celeste and I have been married for two years now,” Dean said, “and that's long enough that people expect—that I—we need an heir. To,” he waved vaguely, “conceive one. And I don't think we can keep putting it off, the, the required act.”

“Oh,” said Castiel, a trifle nonplussed. Of course, he'd known from the beginning that this was part of the arrangement; Dean's title came with obligations, not the least of which was continuing the family line. He knew both Dean and Celeste wanted children—Heaven only knew why, Castiel had always found them noisy and damp—and there was only one way for that to occur. Still, he was caught off guard by Dean's words. “You've spoken to Celeste, then? She agrees?”

“I wanted to make sure you agreed first.”

“Dean,” said Castiel, his tone reproachful. “You're doing things the wrong way round. I may be your lover, but Celeste is your wife and your friend, not a brood mare. You need to discuss this with her.”

“We've discussed it before, but—I'm frightened, Castiel. I know she doesn't want me in that way, and never will, and I'm afraid she'll be disgusted, that she'll hate me after. I don't want her to think of me as some lecherous brute she can't look in the eye without shuddering.”

“I don't think that will happen,” said Castiel gently. “She may not want you, but she loves you like a brother, and I know you'll be respectful. But Dean, you shouldn't be seeking my assurances. Talk to your wife, darling.”

Dean nodded, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. “I will. Tonight.”


End file.
